Auditions
by Freckles04
Summary: The pressure for King Alistair to produce an heir -- a legitimate heir -- begins. Bring on the auditions! One-shot.


_A/N: The world and characters of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer that company my deepest thanks for encouraging community creations._

---

"Dear Maker. How did I let you talk me into this?" Alistair fidgeted, pulling at the deep blue silk of his shirt. The damn thing weighed next to nothing. After donning armor almost daily for the past two years, the noble clothing felt...odd. Looked odder.

Andraste's ashes. Give him a suit of plate any day over this clown's get up. Even Cailan's gaudy golden armor felt more right than this.

"Don't blame me," Marcus, his best friend and Chancellor, said. "It was Eamon's idea, not mine."

"Yes, well." Alistair scowled. "You could have argued against it."

"And miss seeing you all adorned like a harvest turkey? I don't think so."

"I hate you," the King growled.

Marcus smiled, a familiar glimmer entering his eyes. "I could always head back to the Circle, you know. Irving's been hinting again."

Alistair nodded thoughtfully. He'd much rather have Marcus at his side, but he wouldn't keep him from another path, should the mage choose. "Is that what you want?"

"Maker's breath." The Chancellor laughed. "Can you see me as First Enchanter? I'd have the Circle ruined within a week."

A smile stretched the King's lips. "I highly doubt that."

"Besides, someone needs to keep you out of trouble."

"Me? I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself out of trouble." Alistair frowned as Marcus raised a brow. "What's that look? I am."

"Right. And that's why Eamon found you in a compromising position with a young lass last week."

Alistair's cheeks heated. Damn it. The King was not supposed to blush. He was sure he'd read that in one of the many books on governing Eamon had strewn across his desk. "I told you, she tripped. We weren't...she wasn't...blast it. Your father has one affair with a serving girl and you never live it down," he muttered.

"I think Eamon just wants to make sure the line stays legitimate from here onwards. Makes life a little easier."

"What, he doesn't want to go through another civil war in thirty years? Where's his sense of adventure?" Alistair lifted his shoulders and let them fall again. "All right, all right. Let's get this over with."

"Maybe I should ply you with some wine before we head to the ballroom," Marcus mused. "You need to relax."

"Oh, yes. Fantastic idea. Get me drunk so I can make even more of a fool of myself." Alistair shook his head. "Come on, then. The sooner I make an entrance, the sooner I can make an exit."

They heard the music pouring from the ballroom even before they reached it. The herald at the door held up a hand to halt their progress and waited, somewhat impatiently, for the revelry to die down. When it had dulled to a murmur, he stepped forward and announced their arrival in a booming voice.

"His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin, and his lordship, Chancellor Marcus Amell, Hero of Ferelden."

Cheers thundered through the hall. Alistair's feet refused to move for a moment. He'd never get used to this, would he? Hearing his name buffered by "King" and the Theirin surname--it sounded so strange. He missed being plain old Alistair, Grey Warden.

Marcus clapped a hand on his shoulder and surreptitiously pushed him forward into the ballroom. Alistair's mouth dropped open at the sight that greeted him, though he snapped it shut quickly. Maker--there had to be a hundred women here. More, even.

What in Andraste's name had he gotten himself into?

"Let the auditions begin," Marcus said with a soft chuckle.

###

After an hour had passed, Alistair realized a number of things.

One, he should have taken Marcus up on his offer of wine. Being a little drunk suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea when faced with an endless parade of women who looked at him like a prize stallion.

Two, never agree to hold a ball without first learning how to dance. It was really quite boring to just watch the dancing and not partake. Oh, Maker, what had become of him that he actually wanted to dance?

Three, if these noblewomen were the best Ferelden had to offer, maybe he ought to move to Orlais. He'd heard the empress was looking for a consort...

"You can't escape yet," Marcus warned.

"Maker, why not?" The King groaned as Eamon approached with yet another lovely young lady in tow. "This is torture. Please, I beg you, hook me up to the rack and have done with it."

"It's not that bad, Alistair. I saw the way you looked at the last two." Marcus winked. "The finest of the bunch, I agree."

"Wonderful. Then you marry them."

"Both of them?" The mage rubbed his goatee as if figuring out how that could work. "No, I think the Chantry might have something to say against it."

Alistair snorted. "You're a fool."

"Takes one to know one."

"True enough." He pasted on a smile as Eamon finally reached them, hoping his eyes didn't telegraph any of the panic that was just beginning to bubble in his chest.

"Your Majesty," the arl greeted him. "May I present Lady Stella, daughter to Bann Gerald of River's Ford?"

"A pleasure," Alistair said with a smile and a nod. A brunette, for a change. Her features were nice enough, he supposed; not too old, not too young...

_Maker. Am I actually sizing her up like a mabari to be purchased?_

"Your Majesty." Stella gave a little curtsey and giggled. "You're even more handsome up close."

Alistair blinked. "I, uh...thank you. You have lovely..." His gaze drifted over her body as he struggled to think of an appropriate return compliment, lingering on the voluptuous bosom threatening to burst forth. "Uh, teeth. Lovely teeth."

Marcus groaned beside him, and the King felt his cheeks heat.

Stella's brows dipped at his odd praise, but she soon recovered with another giggle. "So kind of your Majesty to say so." She folded her hands demurely in front of her and stared at the floor before shyly raising her eyes to meet his. "Your Majesty...perhaps this is too bold of me, but...might we spend some time together on the balcony, perhaps?" Her eyes darted back to her feet. "It's just...I would like to get to know you better, and it is terribly difficult to hold a conversation here with the music, don't you agree?"

Eamon cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, perhaps it would be best if you remained--"

A flash of temper jolted through Alistair. Maker's breath, he was sick of people making his decisions for him. "That sounds like a lovely idea, Stella. Shall we?" He held out his elbow and she tucked her hand in its crook without hesitation.

The crowd parted for them as easily as if a horde of darkspawn preceded them. Alistair wisely kept that simile to himself; he'd already discovered that mentioning darkspawn to noblewomen tended to result in hyperventilation, stammering, and/or fainting. Causing yet another member of the nobility to collapse would only make the ball drag out longer.

He arched a brow. Or, perhaps, cut it short. It was something to consider.

"Oh, aren't the stars lovely?" Stella breathed as they left the cacophony of the ballroom behind. "In River's Ford, normally the mist from the river obscures the view of the heavens. This is beautiful."

"A friend told me a story once, about the stars," Alistair said without thinking.

"Really?" Stella turned to him, leaning back against the stone railing. "I would love to hear it, your Majesty."

Idiot. Now he'd have to try to remember what Leliana had related, and mess it up horribly, no doubt. He chuckled nervously. "Uh, let's see. There was once a fair maiden called Erlina...no, wait, that isn't right. Alindra! A fair maiden named Alindra. She didn't want to marry anyone, so her father locked her in a tower. Not very nice of him, was it?"

Stella smiled, just a small one. "No, I suppose not."

Alistair cleared his throat. "Right. Anyway, somehow Alindra met a soldier...I'm not sure how, since she was locked in the tower...but no matter. She and the soldier met and fell in love. Her father sent the soldier away to war, where he was killed. Alindra cried and cried and, uh, cried some more...and her tears turned into stars...or, uh, something like that."

She looked up at the sky for a moment, her brow furrowed. "That was a very nice story."

"My friend relates it much better than I." Much better. "I'm no storyteller, if you haven't guessed."

Stella shivered delicately. "Oh, the nights are chilly, this close to the ocean, aren't they?"

"I suppose. We could go back in if you like."

"Or, perhaps...you could just stand a little closer. I'm sure you have heat to spare, no?"

Alistair had faced enough creatures that wanted to devour him to recognize a predatory look when he saw one. "No, I think returning to the ball is a better idea..."

"Maker's breath," she muttered. Then grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and yanked his mouth to hers.

Her lips were warm and firm, delicate beneath his own. Skilled, he supposed, though he knew little of kissing. Though...weren't you supposed to stop thinking when you were kissed properly? That's what he'd always thought, anyway, and yet here he was, his mind analyzing every detail of the world around him instead of drifting away on the sensations. The smell of the wild roses blooming nearby, a quick laugh from the ball behind them, a muttered curse and sharply cut-off scream from the grounds below.

Alistair jerked his mouth away from Stella's. "Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything." She tugged on his shirt again.

He covered her hands with his own and pulled them away. "Go tell Marcus--the Chancellor--that I need him out here, please."

"But...your Majesty..."

Alistair disengaged himself and moved to the stone railing, judging the drop to the ground. "Do as I ask, Lady Stella. Please." For once grateful that he wasn't encumbered by heavy plate, Alistair swung up and over the railing, landing lightly on the ground less than a storey below.

How quickly the old skills fell back into place. He longed for the weight of his shield on his arm and the heft of his blade in his hand, but he was far from defenceless, even unarmed. They didn't make unskilled Grey Wardens, after all. He darted from shadow to shadow, feeling a bit like he was pretending to be a rogue.

The scream had been brief and vague, but he was certain of the direction from whence it had come. Close to the duck pond, away from the lights surrounding the raised ballroom terrace, deep in the gloom of the palace's gardens.

He paused, using the last bit of foliage before the pond to hide himself as he surveyed the area. No movement. No sound--wait. There. A creature rose from the bank, a hulking thing. Darkspawn? A quick check of his Grey Warden senses confirmed it was not. What then? Something that had thrust through the Veil from the Fade? Were there more amassing for attack, then?

Maker. The palace was filled with helpless guests. It wasn't defenceless, to be sure, but he had no illusions about his palace guards. In polite battlefield terms, they'd be called fodder.

"Marcus!" he shouted, hoping his fellow Warden was close enough to hear his cry. He launched himself from cover at the monster. He'd just have to hold off the attack until the mage could reach him.

Unarmed.

_Oh, brilliant plan, Alistair._

No help for it now. He charged the creature, his shoulder lowered to catch it in its midsection. It didn't resist his attack, beyond a delicate-sounding "Oomph" as he collided with it. They tumbled backward into the mud and shallow, stagnant water at the edge of the pond. Alistair reared back, raising a fist to strike--and froze.

The most striking pair of sapphire eyes glittered at him. A monster with clear blue eyes like that? How odd. No, wait. The body beneath his didn't quite feel like a monster's, come to think of it. Unless the monster was decidedly female, with hips that curved just right and...other, uh, curvaceous elements.

A woman. Covered in mud, but definitely a woman.

Maker's breath, he was lying on top of a woman!

"I beg your pardon, my lady," he stammered, trying to push away from her. He put his hand into the muck and it shot out from under him. Instead of succeeding in removing himself from her, Alistair found himself pressed more tightly against her, all too aware exactly how little protection his silken outfit provided. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I need to...let me..." His hand slipped away again. "Andraste's holy knickers!" Giving up, he rolled to the side. The mud cushioned him like a mattress. "There. Now we're a matching set."

She laughed. Not the affected giggle that Stella had shared, but a hearty guffaw. Alistair felt his embarrassment lift somewhat, and his lips curve. "I'm sorry," he said. "I heard the scream and I thought..."

"You were going to save the King from a monster?" She chuckled good-naturedly. "Your heart's in the right place, though perhaps your eyesight needs work."

"In the dark, your figure shrouded in muck...wait." Alistair frowned. "You thought I was going to save the King?"

"Weren't you? Isn't that what young noblemen aspire to? Service to the crown, and all that." She sighed. "There are worse things in life, I suppose. I hear the new King is a nice enough sort."

"Are you a spy, then, sneaking about the grounds to find a way into the palace?" Alistair kept his tone light, but the thought had occurred to him that this woman was not what she seemed. Well...that was a given, since she had seemed to be a monster and clearly was not. But beyond that.

She snorted. "Hardly. I'm here with my father and older sister. This is her thing, not mine. I'd rather be out here...chasing fireflies," she admitted sheepishly. "But father thought it would be a good experience for me to attend the ball. Come to Denerim. See the sights. Get pick-pocketed in the Market District."

"You too?" Alistair chuckled. "I wonder if all new visitors to Denerim look different or something."

"You're not from Denerim, then?"

"Not originally, no." Alistair folded his hands together on his chest, strangely at ease lying in the mud with this woman. "You're rather forthright, aren't you?"

"To my father's everlasting dismay." Her voice deepened in mockery. "'You'd better learn to keep that mouth of yours on a leash, or you'll never find a husband.' I've tried to tell him my mouth is like a mabari--too intelligent to listen--but he's yet to buy that excuse."

Her words startled a laugh out of Alistair, and he felt the first stirrings of...something...in his chest. "Might I know your name, my lady?"

"Terris, of River's Ford, ser."

"A ha," he murmured. "I met your sister."

"You have my sympathy, then. Did she kiss you?"

"Uh." What was the correct answer here? "Yes?"

"Interesting." He could hear the grin in her voice. "And here I thought she was saving herself for the King. And, tell me...did you like it?"

That answer was much simpler. "Not in the slightest."

"Oh." Terris cleared her throat. "And might I ask your name, ser?"

So it comes to an end. "I have many."

"Really? Do share."

He took a breath. "Grey Warden, occasionally. Alistair, frequently. Most often of late, however, is 'your Majesty.' I like that one the least."

"Maker's breath." Terris scrambled to her feet and tried swiping away some of the glue-like mud, unsuccessfully. "Y-your Majesty, please excuse me. I had no right to say the things I said...oh, Maker, I'm going to be executed, aren't I?"

"What?" Alistair rose to his feet as well, a startled laugh escaping. "Why would you think that?"

"Father always said my mouth was going to get me in trouble. I really do need a leash for it. Maybe there's a spell...? Yes, there's a thought!" Her gaze fastened on his, her blue eyes even more vibrant in contrast with the mud smeared across her face. "You know mages, right? Do they have any spells that can make me shut up when I shouldn't be speaking? Like now?" She groaned. "I'm hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I make a fool of myself in front of the King--the King!--and even now I can't--"

Alistair did the only thing he could think of to quell her nervous babbling.

He kissed her.

The world fell away. His senses narrowed to the feel of her lips beneath his, the scent of her--lavender and earth--and the shape of her cheek beneath his hand. She sighed and fell against him, and they fit together as perfectly as if the Maker himself had designed the two of them with the other in mind. Perhaps he had.

A tingle tugged at the edge of his mind, his Grey Warden senses warning him of one with the taint approaching. Marcus. He took his time finishing the kiss, however. Proper kisses should be savoured, after all.

Marcus chuckled behind them. Terris jerked back, startled, but Alistair only smiled. "Ignore him," he advised. "He's a nuisance."

"A nuisance, am I? Alistair--"

The King held up a hand to silence his friend and for once, wonder of wonders, it actually worked.

"Y-your Majesty," Terris began, but Alistair interrupted.

"I'd like to see you again, Lady Terris," he said softly. "For dinner tomorrow, perhaps? And we can work on unleashing that tongue of yours again."

He ignored the surprised bark of laughter from the Chancellor.

Terris's eyes fastened on his own, uncertain. "I--"

Maker, she was going to turn him down. The one woman he'd even been remotely attracted to, and she was--

"I think I'd like that."

"Oh, good." Alistair blew out a relieved breath. "Until tomorrow, then." He waved over one of the guards that had accompanied Marcus and instructed him to see Terris to one of the guest apartments. Another guard was dispatched to find Terris's father and Stella, and take them to similar accommodations, if they wished.

Alistair watched her leave, feeling a buoyancy in his soul he hadn't felt since Duncan had stood up for him against the Grand Cleric. He chuckled as he realized he couldn't even picture her features, obscured by mud as they'd been. And it didn't matter.

Marcus clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Shall I tell Eamon the auditions are over?"

The King shot his friend a crooked smile. "No, I will. I want to rub it in that I found her myself." He looked down at his clothing. "Maker, I'm a mess."

"You are that. Go on, head back to the palace and get cleaned up." Marcus chuckled. "I'll be right behind you."

The mage waited until Alistair had disappeared from view before turning toward the pond. A half-grin tugging on his lips, he coaxed forth the spellwisp that had lured Terris to the water and the wind that had brought her soft cry to Alistair's ears, and dismissed them both with profound thanks. Satisfaction wound through him that his plan--born only yesterday when he'd spotted the dark-haired beauty in the sea of nobles and overheard a sample of her wit--had worked flawlessly.

"I've got your back," he whispered to the darkened sky.

He darted into the gardens to catch up with his King and best friend. It wouldn't do to miss Eamon's face when Alistair delivered the news, would it?


End file.
